[Someone told me Part 3 had a nice sort of finality to it – that even without a Part 4, the story could stand on its own. But I went ahead and wrote Part 4 anyway…whether I should have, I still do not know. Be that as it may, in the immortal words of countless losers like me in the past ‘Here goes nothing’.]
[As always, we go in serial order. Part 4 follows Parts 1,2 & 3.
It never went beyond this point. Each time the hags appeared more vividly, each time I felt my screams get more and more real, more visceral. It was late on the evening of the third day that I woke up to find Fenderis gazing at me with considerable alarm.
“You all right, mate? I heard you scream.”
“Just a nightmare,” I murmured, “nothing to worry about. What’s the time?”
“Nearly seven in the evening. How long can she last? Is she all right? She’s got to come out.”
“I don’t know. I heard her crying not too long ago. She’s got water in there, if not food so at least she isn’t dying.”
“If only you hadn’t built that mini-bar in your room. Thirst would’ve brought her out within a day!”
“Or not, we’ll never know.”
“Want a bite to eat?”
“Get me some bread.”
He came back with some bread and a slab of butter. I chewed on the bread but the butter made me retch. Fenderis sat himself down at my side.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” he said, hanging his head, “never. Of all the dumb, idiotic things I’ve ever…” he choked himself off and gazed broodingly at the closed door.
I sighed and patted his head gently. He said the stupidest things and pulled the craziest stunts but he was still the Fenderis Wolf I’d grown up with. My partner-in-crime, my brother-in-arms, my comrade. There was a good reason she had taken his words as seriously as she had. If anyone could claim to know Jormund Elver, his inner workings and his thought processes, it was Fenderis Wolf – though that wasn’t really saying much, perhaps.
“It wasn’t you, Fenderis,” I told him.
“Of course it was! If only I’d kept my stupid, dumb mouth shut. I fly off the handle too easily, you know. It was her damn father I was angry at, and…”
“It wasn’t you. Maybe what you said was the last straw, but it was all that went before that brought her to this. She’s an angel, Fenderis, but even she could only take so much systematic neglect. I did this. I lost my girl, old chap. I lost what was most precious to me.”
“She’s right here, Jormund, behind that door.”
“She couldn’t be further away if she was in Bolivia. She won’t stay. Her father will come for her. I heard her call him to take her home.”
Fenderis looked at the floor in silence.
“If it means anything, old chap,” he began hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“Look, I know she and I don’t always get along and all that. I’m mean to her sometimes and she pays me back if she feels like it. But she’s quite something, you know. I don’t mean just what she looks like, but what she is and what she does for you. Don’t lose her, Jormund. Don’t give up so easily. Try to work it out. Talk.”
I shrugged with what little strength I had left and rested my head against the now familiar pillow of the balustrade.
“When will her father come?” he asked.
“It takes him two days to reach here. Tomorrow morning, I guess.”
“I’ll wait here with you.”
The vigil that night was a sapping one. I pulled myself to my feet and tried to pace the landing but found myself tiring quickly. Fenderis dozed off at about midnight while I fought against sleep, looking out over the railing into the living room. I couldn’t have borne the dreams again but the memories haunted me just the same. Exactly when I fell asleep, still standing, I can’t say, but the clock was striking five in the morning when the ‘click’ of the latch of the door being opened behind me startled me into consciousness. I turned around quickly, stepping on Fenderis, who was stretched out by my feet. He started to his feet and leapt to the side.
I’d never seen her look quite as she did just then – and I’d sat by her side when she’d had her little bouts with sunstroke and malaria. She was always a slim creature, was my girl, but at that moment it was almost frightening how the shirt she was wearing – mine, by the way, blue with white duckies embossed on it (yes, I have a rotten taste in nightwear) – hung loose over her shoulders. Her hair was dishevelled, the lustre that never failed to dazzle my eyes was missing, and the sparkle in her eyes was replaced by a dull red, the cause of which was clear in the salty lines running down her cheeks. For a while she stood still, one hand on the latch and the other holding the door frame, holding the door half-open.
“Ariel?” I said, not knowing what else to say.
She moved her lips wordlessly, I think she was trying to say my name, but nothing came out. Then she suddenly collapsed, falling into my arms as I stepped forward and caught her.
She was an even lighter weight than usual as I carried her downstairs and laid her out on the sofa. I told Fenderis to light the fire, which he did with a solemn air. Sylvestra, who has a decided affinity for settling on inanimate human objects, placed herself on Ariel’s shoulder.
“You’d better make her something to eat,” I told Fenderis, “she’ll want something when she comes around.”
“The stove’s broken. This cog came off,” he reminded me, showing me a tiny gear-like cog lying on the coffee-table.
“Use the microwave…make something,” I told him, “she’s dying of hunger and you talk about cogs?”
He grumbled vaguely under his breath about stew and went into the kitchen. Fenderis hates the microwave from the bottom of his canine heart. He says it kills the “meat in the meat” whatever that means. But he can use it if he has to.
She woke a few minutes later, stirring slightly as she felt Sylvestra’s fur rub against her cheek. I picked up the incorrigible cat and deposited her on the ground.
“You feeling all right?” I asked, kneeling by her side.
She nodded her assent.
“I’ve told Fenderis to make some stew for you. Do have some.”
“Have you eaten since…that day?” she whispered.
“I’ve…yes, a bit.”
“You look like you haven’t,” she said, touching my cheek lightly with the back of her tiny hand.
“I wasn’t all that hungry,” I explained sincerely,
“I’m sorry I was like…that, and put you to so much trouble. I should’ve gone home myself. I didn’t feel strong enough, or I would have. ”
“I don’t want you to go, Ariel.”
“I don’t see any reason to stay, Jormund.”
I got to my feet and walked slowly to the window. I could hear Fenderis inside chopping the vegetables. I pushed the blinds open. It was still dark outside, though dawn could be seen breaking over the horizon. Sylvestra jumped up onto the window sill and settled herself back to sleep.
“When’s your father coming?” I asked.
“He reached Midgard last night. I guess he should be here shortly.”
“Coming by ship?”
“Yes, and then he’ll charter a limo.”
The Sea-king always travels in style.
“I hope he has a pleasant trip.”
“Papa can rough it out, I guess.”
“Will you two stop dilly-dallying and talk about what happened?” shot Fenderis’ voice from the kitchen door, “Talking about ruddy transportation systems, for Thor’s sake!”
“Will you stop eavesdropping?” I yelled back at him.
“It’s not my fault your kitchen doesn’t have a door. Anyway, stew’s ready. Come and get it.”
Ariel struggled to her feet. I rushed forward and offered her my arm. She thanked me as she took it, and I led her into the kitchen. Fenderis picked up the faulty cog and followed us. The Elver kitchen has a medium-sized wooden table and Fenderis had laid out two bowls of stew on it. I helped her into a chair and seated myself on another one. Fenderis found a bottle of soda and put it down on the table, using the cog to open the seal.
“None for you, Fenderis?” she asked him.
“No, I don’t eat oven-cooked food,” he said disdainfully, “ah…that must be milkman. I think I’ll maul him just for kicks.”
He trotted off, leaving us alone in the kitchen. Shortly afterwards, the sound of an alarmed milkman being chased by a bad-tempered wolf came in through the window.
For a while Ariel and I stared very intently at our bowls. Then we began to eat, with just as much concentration. A silent five minutes passed until I put my spoon down and said,
“He’s right, you know. We need to talk.”
“Really, Jormund, is there anything to talk about? It’s always just you avoiding the subject, fobbing me off by talking about something irrelevant. Silly little Ariel, isn’t it? Let’s just distract her and she’ll forget what she was going on about,” she said in a half-teasing, half-resentful voice.
“That’s not it, old thing,” I said, “really.”
“Old thing. Have you ever even called me anything else? A term of endearment, maybe? Or is that beneath your dignity?” still in the same voice.
“What would you have me say?” I said, “you know I can’t say those mushy things like ‘sweetiekins’ and ‘hunnybuns’ and what-have-you.”
“I’m not asking for mush. I’m asking for feelings. But then you don’t have any.”
“Of course I have feelings!”
“For me? I never noticed.”
“How do you mean you never noticed,” I said, raising my voice.
“Well, say it then. Say you love me.”
“You know I do.”
“No, I need to hear it.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s just words. Saying them or not saying them doesn’t make a difference.”
“No it’s not ridiculous. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s you avoiding taking responsibility, for me. You don’t want to acknowledge that you love me.”
I stabbed a piece of chicken with an angry spoon.
“You’re drivelling!”
“No I’m not, Jormund. It’s…look, it’s over now. We aren’t on the same page; I guess we never have been. I’m going home with Papa. I won’t trouble you again, and I’m sorry that I pushed myself on you for so long….”
It hurt. It hurt to hear her speak like that, though I couldn’t really tell why. Yes, I felt sad that she was going, that our relationship was over but more than that I suddenly realised that what she’d just said was true. Had we never understood each other? Had our expectations from one another and from our relationship been so far different? Why did she even talk about pushing herself on me when it was painfully obvious that she was a far better woman that I would ever be a man?
“….but I do need to know,” she went on, “I do need to know what you felt all this time. Was I just building up a fairytale when I dreamt of us happy together, happy in love? Did you never dream that dream with me? Did you never love me?”
I put the spoon down again and buried my hands into my hair.
“How can you even doubt it?” I asked, my eyes fixed very firmly on my toes.
“Then why this…shame? You won’t even tell me you love me. Have you told anyone else? Have you told Fenderis – ‘Fenderis, that’s the woman I love’? Oh, and don’t tell me you’ve told your parents, you’ve done no such thing. I showed up at their house on your arm and they assumed the rest. Are you ashamed of me?”
I flinched.
“Ariel, do you have any idea what you’re saying?” I said, turning a tortured gaze upon her and getting to my feet. I walked to the broken stove and leaned against the stand. Day was just about breaking, and the first few rays of the sun found their way through the haze, through the glass window onto Ariel’s face. Her eyes were fixed on me.
“Do you want to hear me say it, then?” I said, clenching my fist, “I love you. I love the way you look at me. I love your voice as you sing to yourself when you prune the plants in my lawn. I love the way you tell me you want me when we’re sitting by the fire in the evenings. And I love it when you scold me, kiss me, pinch me and embrace me. There isn’t a thing about you I don’t love. There isn’t a thing you do that doesn’t make me feel I’m the luckiest man in the world. I could go on, you know. I could go on for hours, but what would it mean? Empty words?”
She turned her eyes away. Outside I heard Fenderis trot back to the house, having laid the milkman low. He opened the door and came into the kitchen, Sylvestra in tow. The cat located the pot of stew within seconds and was about to carry it off in triumph when Fenderis forestalled her and served another helping to Ariel.
“You two all right?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Ask her.”
“NO, Jormund. Those aren’t empty words, not to me, not when they come from you. It means the world to me,” she said with a sudden vehemence, getting up and walking to my side, “but it isn’t enough. It’s not what I want.”
“You still want to go, then?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t stop you. I’ve laid my heart out for you, Ariel. I couldn’t do more.”
“I’m not asking for more. All I want to know is….look, Jormund, what makes you happy when we’re together?”
“The fact that we are; that you’re there with me, holding my hand, touching my skin; just there by my side. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, not to me.”
“What can I do, then? What do you want?”
“To be a part of your world,” she murmured, stepping closer and putting a hand on my shoulder.
“A part of my…? What?”
Fenderis suddenly remembered he had a score to settle with the Newspaper boy and took off, muttering a hasty apology. Sylvestra hopped onto the table and helped herself with considerable relish to Ariel’s bowl of stew.
“The world you keep me out of, Jormund. No, don’t interrupt, let me speak. When I come here to spend time with you, you won’t let me in the kitchen. You won’t take me out to any of your usual haunts. You won’t take me to meet your friends at the Socialist Club. I haven’t even seen those hole-in-the-wall restaurants you and Fenderis keep talking about. It’s like you have this curtain, this barrier that you won’t let me cross. As if these aspects of your life are none of my business. As if my place is to sit in that armchair or in the lawn and be an ornament. That’s my radius, my sphere of influence. I don’t have a right to want to know more about my Jormund, to enjoy the things he does, to make something for him because I love him, to take part in those endless debates at the club or to eat the food that he likes so much. So why call you my Jormund, then? You won’t let me in there, into the life that you lead, into the world that you’re a part of. I know I’m different from you, that we come from different places, but if you want us to….if you feel we are…Jormund, it has to be OUR life. Not yours and mine, ours. You don’t even think like that. If you believed we had a future together, Jormund, you would let me into your world, let me spend more time with you, let me see the real you more often. Oh stop it, don’t contradict me - that funny story-teller Jormund Elver is just an act. Keep that jester’s mask for the world, not for me. Not for your Ariel.”
The talking exhausted her. I could see it towards the end of her speech; her eyes glazed over and I just had the time to catch her by the waist before her legs gave way. I carried her to her chair and set her down. Sylvestra appeared to be readying for a spring onto Ariel’s lap, so I picked the cat up and put her into the laundry basket. Then I sat down in my chair.
“It’s not what you think it is,” I said in a low voice, “it’s not. If I won’t let you cook it’s because I believe you’re too good for it.”
“I’m not, I want to.”
“I know now. And the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, well I’m not taking you there. Fenderis and I have cast-iron stomach linings. We can digest anything; you can’t.”
She smiled her little involuntary smile, the demure little curve of her lips bending into a cupid’s bow.
“As for the rest, I’ll admit I don’t fully understand what you mean, but I shall try. I want you to know that you only need to tell me. Don’t hint, or suggest obliquely. Tell me. I know I’m a stupid sort of fellow, I haven’t even really begun to understand my Sea-Princess yet. But you have to help me through it, Ariel. You have to tell me what you want, what you expect from me. I can’t change overnight – “
“I don’t want you to change”
“ – but I can hear you and try to understand you.”
“I want to understand you.”
“Well, each other, then. And this is a start.”
“Yes it is a start.”
“So you’re not going, then?”
She took up her spoon and stirred her stew absent-mindedly. Then the sight of Sylvestra’s black hair floating about in it made her push it away with a grimace.
I laughed, and she joined in. It was the first time we’d felt good about ourselves in almost a week.
“When will you talk to Freyja about…us?” she broke in suddenly.
I pondered the issue.
“Try to understand where I’m coming from here, Ariel. I don’t have a future. When you talk about ‘us’ and ‘our future’ it really predicates on my being able to provide one for you,” I said slowly, trying to weigh my words, “Until I feel confident I can do that, I don’t think it’s fair to you that I should talk in terms of definite dates.”
She sighed and curled her lip but muttered, “Fair enough.”
“No, really…look, Ariel, when I go to Freyja and ask her to bless our union, I want to feel that I deserve to be standing there next to you asking for that blessing, that I’m worthy of it.”
“I don’t think you’re unworthy at all…” she began, but I cut her off.
“But I do. A little more time, old th…errr, I mean, my dear, and I’ll know whether I’m going to make anything of myself. But do wait a little longer. Don’t go getting lost or old or joining an old witches club, will you?”
She gave me a nonplussed look and shrugged. I heard a knock on the door and Fenderis shouting “I’ll get it.” I fixed my gaze on her as she rested her elbows on the table and her cheek in her hands. There was a thoughtful look in her green eyes as she looked at Sylvestra toppling the laundry basket and sharpening her claws against the legs of my chair. Then she got up.
“Well?” she said.
“What?”
“Idiot,” she said, putting as affectionate a spin on it as it is possible to put on a word like ‘idiot’.
“Why?”
“I’m sitting on your lap.” Which she proceeded to do, without waiting for an invitation. Sylvestra gave a suitably disgusted look as if to say,” These kids nowadays…”
Ariel held up her hand.
“So you are going to put a ring on that finger?”
“A big diamond one, as soon as I can.”
“And you’re going to kiss me now?”
“Well, we’ll put some sort of ring on there first,” I said, picking up the faulty cog that Fenderis had thrown on the table and putting it on her finger. It fitted perfectly.
“I like it. Thank you very much,” she said, holding it up against the light.
When King Triton reached the kitchen about half-an-hour later – though not before Fenderis had scratched the paint on his limo, punctured the tyres, tried to barricade the door and subjected him to numerous murderous stares – he found his youngest daughter contentedly entangled on a kitchen chair with a certain Jormund Elver.
[It’s funny how things work out. How suddenly life can change and how, in little imperceptible steps, we go from happiness to a state of misery. Where I stood when I wrote the lines above – empty words, as I prophetically said at the time – was perhaps only a few months in time and a few degrees of separation away from where I stand now. And yet it seems centuries apart, oceans away.
Maybe when it comes to being lucky, I’m cursed. Life will go on, we’ll move on. And we’ll try to love again. All I can hope is that she will be more fortunate with somebody who could love her more, be there for her, give her more than perhaps I ever could. If there is a kindly providence, a higher power who watches over us, I know she will. I won’t. But if there is something I can say with any degree of certainty, it is that I am fortunate to have known her, to have had her in my life for as long as I did.
Cold grey dawns will follow bright sunny days. It’s a part of life.]
